War Waged at Home
by A.S. Mitchell
Summary: The more Bulma thinks about it, the more she realizes how little she really knows about her husband.


_*****This is perhaps a bit far fetched, and. I'm... not quite sure what was going through my mind when I wrote it, or what the actual... point... was, but maybe, someone somewhere will happen upon it and decide they like it. Stranger things have happened. :)  
_

_There is no excuse for this._

* * *

Relaxing on a sofa, a glass of wine in her hand, Bulma watched Vegeta start up another set of push ups. She was starting to regret asking him to come inside; he was beginning to stink up the entire room. Wrinkling up her nose, she sniffed and lay back onto the couch, swirling the red wine in its glass. On her stomach rested a half open book.

"Vegeta," she said without looking over. "Your father's name was Vegeta, too, right?"

"Yes," he answered shortly.

"Hmmm." Bulma hummed softly, rolling over onto her stomach, careful not to spill the wine. She rested her head in her hand. "Why don't you ever talk about him?"

She expected to see his scowl deepen, but he did no such thing. He grunted, lifting himself up for what seemed like the thousandth time, sweat dripping from his brow. "I don't remember him."

"You don't remember anything about him?" she asked sadly, almost beginning to regret bringing the subject up. It was strange to her, though; living in her home with her parents, with photos and family heirlooms, and aside from his armor, not a single thing that said 'Vegeta lives here.'

"I was taken as a boy," he replied again, this time more tersely. "I don't remember anything."

And to put an end to the conversation entirely, he pulled himself from the ground, wiped at his brow, and left the room.

Bulma sighed and dropped her face down into the soft sofa cushion with a groan.

* * *

Decorating the entire house would take far too long, so Bulma allowed Trunks to stick paper snowflakes in the window, which he seemed to enjoy greatly. It wasn't Christmas yet -there wasn't even snow on the ground- but Trunks had insisted.

"Mom," the small boy cried, showing her a drawing. "Look!"

"That's nice, Trunks, but... what..." she trailed off, squinting hard at the drawing, not sure what to make of it. "Who's that?"

"That's dad."

"Okay, then who's that?"

"That's me."

There was a third figure in the drawing, a large round one, thankfully without blue hair. No hair at all, actually.

"Well then who's that?"

"That's the evil snowman were fighting," the boy said proudly, grinning. "See? I even made him bleeding."

"Ohh, so that's what all that red is..." she nodded, running her fingers back through his hair. "That's- great."

He pointed to where the kitchen was. "Can we hang it up?"

"I don't think grandma would appreciate an evil bleeding snowman on her fridge, sweetie," she said softly. "But I think I know who would like it." she offered him her hand. "Come on."

The boy took her hand and she led him away, hoping her husband wasn't in another one of his moods. With ChiChi coming down hard on Goten, Trunks had been bored lately, and wasn't shy about showing it. He was driving Vegeta mad, who ultimately started spending more and more time by himself.

They approached a large metal door with a small round window to see through, and she picked him up so that they could both look in.

Inside the specially built chamber, (that judging from the insides wouldn't be around much longer, Bulma noted with a sigh) Vegeta was shirtless and drenched in sweat, waiting for another volley of attack bots. Realizing that if they stayed around waiting they'd be there forever, Bulma cut short the training session via a keypad outside the chamber.

Vegeta looked up, startled, his head snapping quickly toward the automated door that slid open.

"What are you-" he began, but then paused, seeing Trunks with her.

"We were waiting to show you something, but we didn't have all day," Bulma explained. "Trunks, show your father what you made."

She set the small lavender-haired boy down and watched as he tentatively approached his father, the edges of his drawing gripped tightly in his little hands.

Rather than bend down, Vegeta simply stared at the boy, waiting.

"Go on, Trunks," Bulma encouraged.

"I drawed this," Trunks said carefully, holding the paper out to his father.

After a moment of consideration, Vegeta reached out and took it, studying it. He paused, and glanced up at Bulma for a clue as to what he should do or say.

"It's you n' me killing an evil snowman," Trunks said, a hint of pride in his voice, and Bulma couldn't help but notice the smallest of smirks form at the edge of her husbands mouth when he explained about the blood. "Mom says Gramma won't want an evil bleeding snowman on the fridge, but I think it would be cool."

"You should keep it, Vegeta. I have a feeling you helped inspire it, anyway," she snapped, folding her slim arms across her chest, eyebrows raised accusingly.

"Do ya like it, Dad?"

"It...is very good, son," Vegeta recited in his grating tone. "I shall... do something appropriate... with it."

Trunks face lit up like the fourth of July; Vegeta recoiled nervously.

"All right," he said, staring down the small boy. He stiffly flicked his wrist. "Go. Off with you."

_'Thank you'_ Bulma mouthed to him with a playful smirk as she took their son's hand and lead him away.

**...**

Bulma smiled at the foggy bathroom mirror as Vegeta stepped out of the shower behind her. Sharing a warm shower was one of the few intimate things Vegeta would allow, beside actual lovemaking. It always made her feel incredibly, relaxed, even if he was practically mute throughout the entire thing.

She brushed her teeth while he toweled off, then went to apply her face cream before bed.

**...**

"You didn't throw it out, did you?" she asked later that night, crawling into bed. "Vegeta, did you? You did, didn't you?"

"I did not throw the blasted drawing away," he barked, grabbing a handful of covers and ripping them away from her.

"Good, because it was really important to him that you keep it." She stole the covers back and began fluffing them down, wriggling around to get comfortable. "He's still young, he needs to know his father takes an interest in the things he's doing."

"It was a drawing, woman, not a presidential speech."

"It's important, Vegeta," Bulma all but snarled.

"I'll get the damned thing tattooed on my chest if you'll stop harping and go to sleep," he grunted.

She glared at the back of his head with a glower, hesitating.

"Didn't you ever do anything special for your father?"

"No."

"Really? Never? What about holidays or birthdays? You don't remember _anything?_"

"Woman, I would like to sleep sometime this century."

"You really don't remember anything?" she asked a second later, quietly and without hostility.

Vegeta pretended to be asleep.

With a roll of her eyes, she shut the lights out and snuggled down into the covers, listening to the house settle. She tried to fall asleep, but instead lie there for hours, her mind unwilling to let her rest.

* * *

Over their time spent married, Vegeta had irritated her (sometimes beyond belief), but he had also given her a lot to think about. For the most part, she tried to ignore it. Obviously, he was a man that did not enjoy talking. But the curiosity ate at her night and day. She knew the basics, but the thing that bothered her was she probably knew about as much as the others did about him. It just wasn't right. She was his wife, and even now, he was almost a stranger still in some ways.

She put her earrings on in the mirror and made sure her lipstick was flawless, then went to check that Trunks was dressed. He was going through a phase of not wanting to wear pants- brought on by ChiChi's boy, no doubt.

"Trunks, are you ready?" she called.

"Yeah mom, I'll be there in a sec!"

One down, she thought to herself, drifting downstairs in search of Vegeta, one to go.

"Don't you look handsome," she commented when she found him, noticing he had even donned a pair of normal shoes. "Do you have the keys?"

"Keys?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"For the car."

"What is it with you and driving?" he demanded with a shout.

"Not all of us can fly," she hollered back, fingernails digging into the material of her new purse.

"Well why not? You've had plenty of time to learn," he remarked hotly.

Boy, someone was in a good mood tonight, she thought with an internal sigh.

"Maybe because I have a perfectly good car and a perfectly good husband to drive me places," she bellowed, marching over to the door and ripping it open. "Trunks! Let's go!"

They piled into the car and drove off in silence, the front seat reserved only for parents trying to scowl everyone else off the road. Luckily, the drive to ChiChi and Goku's wasn't as long as she remembered, and before long they were pulling up alongside the little house, the smell of food in the air.

"Hey guys," Goku greeted them at the door, inviting them in. "Glad you could make it."

"Thanks for having us, you guys," Bulma said pleasantly.

Trunks quickly broke away from her and rushed off to go play with Goten, who Bulma was thankful to see wearing pants.

Everyone was there, sitting and standing around talking, some broken off into pairs or groups, others sitting side by side and laughing. It was good to see everyone together again, but it was obvious time spent apart had made things awkward. It always did. She noticed neither Pu'ar nor Yamcha in the crowd, and was about to ask about it when ChiChi attacked her.

"Bulma, you have got to see these new pans Goku bought me for my birthday," she beamed, grabbing hold of Bulma's arm and tugging her off.

Bulma went willingly and with a smile, even though she didn't have much of an interest in cooking. Her mother typically did all the cooking, but still, ChiChi was proud of her fine china and expensive pots and pans, since they lived a relatively simple life tucked away from the big city.

Besides, it was nice to spend some time with someone who didn't speak only in grunts and dirty looks.

**...**

It began simply enough, that crazy ancient lunatic staring him down through the green tinted shades Vegeta had never seen him without. The man was no doubt drunk, as he often was, his face glowing and his speech rapidly declining. Vegeta's nose wrinkled up in repulsion as he began drooling and talking at length with the pig-man, also inebriated.

Kakkarot was busy shoveling food into his face and the younger had taken outside to practice something or another after finishing large helpings of cake. The three-eyed man and the pale midget were roaring with laughter amongst a group of others, and there Vegeta was, in the middle, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth hurt.

"Hey, Vegeta," the old man spoke up, waving a finger over at him and sloshing his sake over the rim. "Why aren't you having fun with everybody else?"

Vegeta thought that, perhaps if he didn't answer, he would lose interest, but his plan didn't appear to be working.

"Yeah, Vegeta," Oolong added, one ear flipped inside out and a dazed look on his face. "Why don't you have a drink with us? Everyone else is havin' a good time and you're just sitting there _slukling._"

Vegeta cocked a brow at the word 'slukling,' which he assumed to be 'sulking', but otherwise did not respond.

Oolong, not particularly good at taking hints, stumbled over to him and waved some alcohol under his nose.

"Come on, it'll help you loosen up."

"Or I might kill you all in a drunken rage," Vegeta offered curtly.

The pig didn't seem at all phased, though Master Roshi topped over at his words with a bark of laughter.

"A warrior's body is not to be treated like such garbage," he muttered under his breath.

Oolong stared. "You don't have to get drunk, you know."

Grimacing and suppressing a growl, Vegeta stared back at the pig-man, feeling his temper beginning to get the best of him. He looked from crowd to crowd, wincing at the loud laughter filling the room, and contemplated retreating outside. No one would notice he'd left, though he wasn't looking forward to the argument that would surely follow when Bulma returned home with a sleeping Trunks.

"Fine," Vegeta said. "I shall have one drink, and you will leave my presence immediately. Do we have an understanding?"

"Deal," Oolong said with a grin, handing him a glass of sake.

Vegeta hated being forced into things. He hated even more actually complying, but one drink wouldn't destroy his self control, and it would get that insidious pig off his back. It tasted horrid, and burnt all the way down, though he did not show it. He didn't understand why anyone would deliberately drink the stuff. Surely urinating on oneself wasn't that desirable of an experience.

Oolong offered him a second drink, to which he declined.

"What's the matter, Vegeta, can't handle it?"

"I know what you're doing, pig-man, and it won't work."

"Fine, if you're too weak to even handle a little sake, I'll go see if Goku wants to join us. Hey, Goku!" the pig hollered loudly, waving his hand around. "Wanna drink?"

Whether Goku had noticed or not, Vegeta wasn't sure, because he quickly had Oolong's throat in his hand. Oolong's squelched cry alerted everyone, who began to quiet down and stare.

"Give it to me," he demanded. "All of it."

Oolong's eyes went wide. "A-all of it?"

Vegeta's grip tightened. "_All_ of it."

"What, no way! That's-gahgh! L'right! l'go!" he gasped, squirming to get free. "Master Roshi!" he coughed, hands on Vegeta's, "Master Roshi! Give it to him!"

"But it's mine," Roshi answered dismally, saying "goodbye, friend" as he drunkenly handed it over to Vegeta, who quickly drank the entire jug, exhaled in Oolong's face, and then dropped him onto the floor.

"There," he said haughtily, making his way to the door, "that's better."

Bulma's face turned completely red, avoiding the uncomfortable stares of all the guests.

"I'm going to kill him," she said to herself. "But after I finish enjoying myself. He can wait in the car. Or fly, for all I care."

* * *

Much to her surprise, Vegeta was waiting in the car when she and Trunks said their goodbyes and left. She had expected him to fly home, or not to come home at all. She didn't care- she wasn't talking to him, anyway.

The drive home was awkward, and even though Vegeta insisted he was fine, Bulma refused to let him drive. She sped more than she should, which worried Trunks who gasped every time they made a sharp turn, but even he knew not to say anything. Soon he fell asleep, gawkily strapped into his seatbelt, snoring quietly.

Beside her, Vegeta spent the drive with his eyes shut as well, though she knew he wasn't sleeping.

"I can't believe you did that," she said to him at last, her voice barely above a whisper. "All I wanted to do was go out and have a normal evening."

Okay, so maybe she was talking to him.

"The pig and old man are drunken imbeciles," Vegeta mumbled, not quite slurring but obviously taking his time as to articulate.

Bulma scowled over the steering wheel. "Look who's talking."

"Woman," he sighed, his head falling to the side. "Not now."

"Don't tell me what to do," Bulma growled, purposefully jerking the wheel too far to one side and then back. She had almost forgotten about Trunks, though the swerve hadn't woken him. "If Trunks weren't sleeping, I'd tear into you, you know that? You humiliated me."

"I will end you," he lazily responded, laying his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You're the prince of all assholes, that's what you are," she said under her breath, glaring down the road. "Didn't anyone ever teach you any manners? You know what? Just forget it. Just don't talk to me anymore. Ever. You do what you want to do, Vegeta, just go right on ahead."

They drove in silence for another couple of miles, which was fine with her, because if she had to talk to that jerk she knew she'd wind up waking Trunks. It was getting chilly so she put the top up and cranked the heat; she only had to white-knuckle it a little longer. She might even pay a visit to that training chamber of his, she decided. She really had some steam to blow off.

"My father was a ruthless man who took enjoyment in the demise of his opponents. He spared no one that wasn't of use to us," Vegeta began to explain, almost as though in a trance. "Before Frieza, our race was the most feared in all the galaxy. I was taken as a child as a barter for my father's allegiance. He told me if I did as he said, he would allow my father to live. He told my father much the same. Instead of keeping his word, he killed my father, and destroyed our planet."

Bulma, not knowing what to say, said nothing, feeling her anger beginning to fade. That much she knew. It was the way he said it that becalmed her.

"My father allowed me a pet of sorts on my third birthday," he continued quietly, and she wasn't sure she saw it because of the darkness, but she thought she saw a him smiling faintly. "A small alien similar to your Earth hamster, except with razor sharp fangs and claws."

It was hard imagining such a creature, and even harder imagining a three year old Vegeta.

When everything felt a bit less tense, she found her voice again.

"This doesn't mean you're off the hook, you know," she said with a sad simper.

"Once I have regained my bearings, I shall obliterate you," he muttered brokenly, as though trying not to heave.

"What was its name?"

"What are you going on about?"

"The pet your father gave you. What was its name?"

"Yaaju."


End file.
